


The Decision

by Selador



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Canon verse or something like it, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pain, Sacrifice, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selador/pseuds/Selador
Summary: He knows what he’s doing when he yells out, “Prompto! Lead them away from us!” and he knows that no matter how fighting fit Prompto may be, no matter how many explosives and bullets he has, he’ll be overwhelmed in short order from the coeurls and MTs that have converged on them without anyone else around to distract them.No, Ignis knows exactly what he is doing. To say anything otherwise would be a lie.





	The Decision

**Author's Note:**

> I tagged everything that needed to be tagged and warned for without giving away the ending. Keep that in mind.

When Gladio goes down, breathing still but unconscious, Ignis knows that they need to retreat. His own leg has been mauled by the coeurls, and he thinks a bullet from the MTs has grazed him. They must retreat while they still can.

When he opens his mouth to call out as much to Noctis, he realizes before a sound passes his lips that Noctis is curled up, stiff and trembling in the mud in a clear sign of stasis.

A flash of blonde whizzes up ahead, Prompto throwing grenade after grenade, firing entire rounds from his guns. Ignis can’t tell if he’s injured at this distance, but he’s most fighting fit out of all of them.

He’s also furthest away.

And they need time.

Without thinking it through—no. That’s a lie, when doesn’t Ignis think anything through fully and completely, even with only a millisecond to do so? He knows what he’s doing when he yells out, “Prompto! Lead them away from us!” and he knows that no matter how fighting fit Prompto may be, no matter how many explosives and bullets he has, he’ll be overwhelmed in short order from the coeurls and MTs that have converged on them without anyone else around to distract them.

No, Ignis knows exactly what he is doing. To say anything otherwise would be a lie.

But they need time. Time that only Prompto can give them right now.

“Hey there, uglies!” Prompto yells, the _booms_ of several grenades following shortly.

“Noct,” Ignis hisses, yanking on Noctis in a way unbefitting of a royal vassal in any other circumstances. “Get up. Help me with Gladio. We’re retreating.”

He groans, but doesn’t complain. He never does, when the pain is bad.

Gunfire. Farther away, but not far enough. They must hurry. Ignis’ hands shake as he and Noctis each pull one of Gladio’s arms over their shoulder.

Ignis directs them away from the gunfire, away from the explosions, from Prompto’s taunts and shouts.

His leg hurts, and he’s already stumbling with the strain over supporting Gladio’s weight on top of his own.

Ignis ears strains as they go, when they can no longer see Prompto, waiting for the final scream. Or for the telling silence. He doesn’t want to hear it, to have to hear what he’s done, what he’s done to _Prompto_ , but if he can’t face the consequences of his decisions, he shouldn’t have ordered Prompto to do it, shouldn’t have taken up strategy in the first place, so he keeps listening, until they’ve gone far enough out of the valley that the sounds of battle have faded.

Prompto is in the best shape of all of them, so maybe he’ll—if he doesn’t hear it, maybe Ignis can believe—

The Regalia is so far. Why did they park it so far? They don’t have their chocobos, they won’t even—they need more curatives—

There’s a havens a thirty minute walk away. If Ignis can get them there—

Prompto won’t survive thirty minutes. Probably not even half that.

 _Maybe he’ll be able to get away?_ Ignis tries to reassure himself, to think what he’s just done will not bring forth consequences.

If they can get to the Regalia, drive back, but—they need to heal, all they would accomplish if they go back as they were is to make Prompto’s sacrifice be in vain. And the Regalia is farther than the haven.

To the haven, it is, then.

When they’ve recovered, they’ll have to go see if they can find anything left of Prompto.

Between coeurls and MTs, they may not even want to do that.

…

They make it halfway carrying Gladio, carefully avoiding any monsters, when Noctis realizes that Prompto isn’t following them.

“Iggy, where’s—where’s Prompto?” he asks, nearly dropping Gladio, who’s still bleeding from his head. The sight of it only makes Ignis more anxious. He can’t lose Gladio too, not after—

“We have to keep going, Noct,” Ignis tells him, as gently as possible.

“We have to go back for Prompto!” Noctis cries. His voice rings out into their surroundings, and Ignis reaches over to cover Noctis’ mouth.

“Quiet, Noct,” he orders sternly. “Do you really think we can fight anything off like this? Injured, drained, and Gladio unconscious without suffering further casualties?”

Noctis’ eyes are wide, and he shakes his head minutely. “Don’t allow Prompto’s sacrifice be in vain, Noct,” Ignis says, relieved to see the panic fade from Noctis’ expression. He can see the realization dawn on him.

Ignis removes his hand. Noctis says nothing, and doesn’t protest when Ignis tugs them forward. Gladio needs medical attention in a safe location as soon as possible. If he’s bleeding internally, or if that head wound is worse than it looks...

“We left Prompto behind,” Noctis whispers.

“No,” Ignis corrects, “I left him behind.”

To that, Noctis says nothing.

…

They get to the haven before sun down, and Ignis breathes a sigh of relief.

He lays Gladio flat on his back, and summons their gear from the Arsenal. He needs bedrolls; medical supplies; his pot, too, for hot water, their wounds need to be disinfected; they’re out of potions, so they’re have to use bandages the old fashioned way…

Noctis sits down besides Gladio, staring at him, but not at him. He pulls his knees to his chest, making him look much smaller and younger.

It took them forty-seven minutes to get to the haven.

There’s really no point in going back now. Prompto wouldn’t have...

Gladio first.

He gets out the clothes and antiseptic, and starts wiping away at Gladio’s wound. It’s deeper than he would have liked; it’ll need stitches in the absence of curatives.

“How could you…” Noctis begins, as Ignis works on Gladio. “I thought you two were… you know. Together.”

Ignis doesn’t stop stitching up Gladio’s cut. “You are correct. We are.” Shit. “Were.”

Gods, what has he done?

“How…” Noctis begins to ask but never finishes.

“We needed to retreat,” Ignis tells him as calmly as he doesn’t feel. The thought of _never seeing Prompto again_ encroaches into his mind, and he can’t let it overtake him. Not yet. Not right now. “Gladio was unconscious, you were in stasis, and I was injured myself. Prompto was still fighting, and I—” How can he justify this? Justify this to Noctis? To himself? He’s not brave enough to look at Noctis’ face. If he hadn’t been injured, he could have sacrificed himself to give them the time they needed, but with his injuries—Prompto was best positioned and able. By the strategist’s rationale, it had to be Prompto. How inadequate that seems, without the impending threat of death. “I told him to lead them away from us. So I could get us all out of there.”

“Not all,” Noctis says. Accuses. “You didn’t get us all out of there.”

“No,” Ignis agrees, as mildly as he can. He checks his stitches, but they’re neat and clean. He sanitizes the needle and sets on putting it away. “But I got as many of us out as I was able.”

Noctis doesn’t respond for quite a while. Not until it’s well into the night, and Ignis has determined that Gladio will survive with some sleep and time to heal.

“I shouldn’t have brought him with us,” Noctis says, voice breaking as he pushes his face into his knees. “I shouldn’t have—this is all my fault.”

“Prompto knew what he was agreeing to, when he signed up to join the Crownsguard,” Ignis tells him, kneeling besides Noctis. He places a hand on his shoulder after a moment’s hesitation, unsure about how much Noctis blames Ignis. He should blame Ignis. If Ignis had been in better shape, better positioned, it could have been him instead. It would have been a call infinitely easier to make.

This is why no one wants to be a strategist.

Noctis doesn’t fight off his hand, but he shakes his head. “He did know, Noctis. I went through the contract with him myself. He knew that he was making a commitment, to protect and fight for you.” None of his words matter here, do they? “People die in this line of duty, Noct. I’m sorry. If it could have been me—”

“No!” Noctis says, head shooting up to stare at him wild-eyed. His eyes are red and his face is wet. “Iggy, that wouldn’t have been better!”

“It would have been an easier call for me to make,” Ignis tells him, gently, but there’s no gentle way to tell his liege that he would have preferred to die himself than order Prompto to.

“Gods, Iggy,” Noctis says. He covers his face with his hands, and doesn’t make a sound, but Ignis knows he’s mourning.

They need tents. More bedrolls.

His leg reminds him that he has an injury too, that he’s left bleeding and unattended.

He gets the tent up, and pulls Gladio inside on his bedroll. He sets up for himself and Noctis. He does not almost accidentally set up a fourth.

They lie down inside, but Ignis is certain he’s not the only one who doesn’t sleep.

…

Gladio wakes up a little after sunrise, groggy and confused. Noctis definitely didn’t sleep; Ignis heard him get up and leave the tent sometime during the night. Ignis thought about following him, but Noct knows well enough not to leave the haven, no matter how upset he is.

“What’s it?” he asks, turning his head around. “Iggy?”

“I’m here,” Ignis says, kicking out of his bedroll. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

“Water would be great,” Gladio says, squinting around the tent. “Where’s blondie?”

“Here’s some water,” Ignis says instead, which answers Gladio’s question anyway.

“Shit,” Gladio mutters, but he drinks when Ignis assists him. “How’d it happen? Where’s Noctis? Don’t tell me—”

“Noctis is sitting outside the tent,” Ignis tells him, hand resting on Gladio’s head. It’s for Gladio’s comfort, he tells himself, but also for his own. His boyfriend is dead, after all. He sent him to his death. He doesn’t deserve comfort. Ignis pulls his hand back. “Noctis is fine.”

“I’m so sorry, Iggy,” Gladio says, sitting up onto his elbows. “I know you two were—I know you tried to keep it secret, but I noticed—are you okay?”

How does he tell Gladio what he’s done? “No,” he says honestly, because if he can’t talk to Gladio, if Gladio doesn’t understand the requirements of duty, of the decisions they must make, who else will? “It was—Gladio, we needed time to escape. I told him to lure the enemies away.”

“Yeah, but how did it—” Gladio blinks hard. “Oh. I see.”

Silence, while Ignis waits for Gladio’s reaction. He trusts Ignis too much by now to insult him by asking _was there really no other option_. But he could question if it was the _best_ option, could question why they let themselves get into that situation in the first place, why they didn’t retreat sooner, even if they were swarmed on all sides by enemies, even if they were caught off guard, even if Gladio himself got knocked out, and Noctis reduced himself to stasis, _there must have been something else he could have done—_

“Shit,” Gladio mutters. He peers up at Ignis, brow furrowed. “I’m sure you did what needed to be done, Iggy. I know you did. That you chose the option that got us out with the fewest casualties.”

“I don’t know what else I could have done,” Ignis says, his own voice unsteady now. “If I—should it have been me? I think it should have been me, but I fear that—that I would have died before the three of you could have gotten away safely. Between you and Noctis, how could…”

“Yeah,” Gladio says. He pauses then adds, “You could have left me behind, Iggy.”

“I doubt your unconscious body would have distracted them for more than a second, Gladio,” Ignis says quietly. They would have ripped him apart and then come after the rest of them. Maybe, without Gladio’s weight, the three of them could have gotten out, but…

They would have lost someone, in every possibility, and despite Ignis’ personal feelings—

Despite all of their personal feelings—

Prompto is—was, strategically, the only one who could do what needed to be done.

And Ignis, as their strategist, had to make a decision.

“I shouldn’t have let myself be hit,” Gladio says. “Shit, Iggy—I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“We all got hit, Gladio,” Ignis tells him. He’s so tired. But how can he sleep? He’d see Prompto’s face, imagine the last time they camped where Prompto cuddled into his back, and armed tucked around his waist, and—he’ll never have that again. And it’s all his fault.

…

Ignis emerges from the tent to find Noctis sitting on one of the chairs. His game is open, but he’s not playing it. It’s not even on.

“Noctis,” Ignis murmurs in greeting. Noctis doesn’t react. “Gladio has woken up. He’s doing well.”

Noctis’ head moves, a bit. That’s enough.

Ignis isn’t hungry, but what else can he do right now but make them something to eat? He gets out his cooker, but Noctis says, “We should go get Prompto’s body. At least.”

Ah. “Noctis,” he says slowly. “We can, but… I doubt that we’ll find,” he swallows, trying not to conjure imagery in his mind along with his words. Cooking is a terrible idea. What was he thinking? He puts his gear away. “We won’t find that much, I’d expect.”

“Oh, _gods_ ,” Noctis says. He throws his game across the haven and it shatters on the rock. “ _Fuck._ ”

Ignis should go back in the tent. He should give Noctis his privacy, is what he tells himself.

And Gladio is an easier presence to be with at this point in time. Gladio understands what costs must be paid in the line of duty.

Though, perhaps after this, Noctis will understand as well.

Ignis wishes he didn’t have to. That he would never have to.

…

“I want to go find the body,” Noctis announces, after Ignis is done checking over Gladio’s wounds. “Gladio, can you move yet?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Gladio says, after a moment. He probably shouldn’t, but he stands up anyway.

There’s no reason not to. The MTs have probably searched the area and left by now. The coeurls would have lost interest, if they didn’t attack the MTs and were exterminated themselves.

They could probably go back.

Perhaps Prompto survived? Perhaps they can go back, and find him waiting—wondering why they took so long—

But if he’s not—if all they find is his body, in who knows what sort of state, Ignis might—

“You okay, Igs?” Gladio murmurs to him, as they make short work of their camping gear to desummon it back to the Arsenal.

“Not at all,” Ignis murmurs back, but presses forward before Gladio can respond to that to walk beside Noctis. Gladio doesn’t push it.

The Regalia is beyond the location of the battle, and while the battlegrounds is quite a bit out of the way, they head there. “Might as well check the battleground first, and pick up the Regalia afterwards,” Gladio says. No one disagrees.

The valley where they were boxed in by MTs and coeurls is littered with the remains of some coeurls and magitek exosuits. Ignis takes a mental tally of how many of each they were fighting but can’t match it up. He doesn't know if all the MTs and coeurls are accounted for.

He sees no hint of blonde though. Ignis steps forward, unsteadily, and stops.

Gladio puts his arm out, and walks forward into the carnage, leaving Noctis and Ignis to wait.

“Fuck this,” Noctis says, and starts to search the opposite end of the battle site.

Ignis doesn’t move. He’s not sure if he can, at the moment.

If he searches for Prompto, and finds him—finds his remains, if they’re even identifiable—would he see his expression still on his face as he died? Would it be filled with pain? Fear?

Betrayal?

Or, worse, if there isn’t enough left of him for even that?

“I don’t see him,” Gladio calls out, after some agonizing minutes. “Noct?”

“... No. Not here either,” Noctis frowns. “You don’t think… you don’t think he was _eaten_ , do you?” he asks, looking nauseated at the thought.

Gods, but Ignis hates Noctis for a moment, for saying such a thing. Hates himself more, for making it happen.

“MTs would have left the body,” Gladio says, “unless they took him captive. Coeurls wouldn’t, though. How many were we fighting?”

There were seven coeurl bodies strewn across the ground… had there been more? Ignis tries to remember, but in the chaos—it slips his mind. He’s uncertain. But the MTs seem accounted for, and Ignis suddenly wishes that some would have survived, if only to give them hope that Prompto was captive but alive. “There could have been more coeurls. But we aren’t missing any MT soldiers here.”

“You don’t think he could be alive, do you?” Noctis asks, suddenly fervent and energy high. “If they dragged him off?””

Ignis and Gladio exchange a grim look. “I’m sorry, Noct,” Gladio says, gently, because Ignis can’t.

Noctis shoulders sag. “We need to find him,” he announces. “We’re going to the car.”

Neither of them argue.

...

The Regalia is where they left it, at the side of the road. It’s got some sand on it, but it’s a welcome sight as they as they drag their tired and miserable bodies across the dry desert.

“We’ll search the area,” Noctis says. “Find the coeurl’s nesting grounds. See if we can find—anything.”

“Your Highness,” Ignis demures, even as it kills him, “perhaps we should continue on to our journey—”

“No offense, Iggy,” Noctis says, “but shut up.”

Ignis doesn’t respond. He can’t respond. If he responds, if he shows Noctis how upset he is, how miserable he is, how much he regrets his decision, even for a moment, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to put himself back together.

And he doesn’t need to respond. Gladio snaps, angrily back at Noctis, “What the hell else do you expect him to do, Noctis? This is his _job_.”

“I _expect_ him to be a little upset that he got his boyfriend killed!” Noctis yells back, the cord holding his composure snapping. “He’s acting like a fucking robot!”

“Would you rather I fall apart, Your Highness?” Ignis asks him quietly. He’s already falling apart, though, but he’ll keep it inside. No need for anyone else to suffer through it with him. This is his fault, and he’ll handle it on his own. “Would it make you feel better?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Noctis hisses. “How can you just—he was my friend, Iggy. And your _boyfriend_. He _loved_ you. He told me he did.”

Ignis fails to hide his flinch. They hadn’t yet—they hadn’t _said_ that yet to each other, and hearing that Prompto said so, even to Noctis is—

“You would be just as upset with me even if were to fall apart over this,” Ignis tells Noctis coldly. “After all, what right do I have to feel upset over Prompto’s death?”

“You don’t—” Noctis says and stops. “He was your boyfriend,” he says again.

“He was a Crownsguard, who swore when he took his oath to serve that he would give his life to protect you,” Ignis tells him. “As we all have. And if it comes to it— _when_ it comes to it, I will gladly lay down my life to give you and others a chance to survive. As will many others in the future.”

Noctis pales and looks away, anger leaking out of him. It is not that Noctis doesn’t know the price the Royal Family asks its vassal’s to pay for them. He learned that well enough years ago, when the Marilith attacked, killing so many Crownsguard, who fought in vain to save the Queen but successfully kept Noctis alive.

Noctis doesn’t respond, instead retreating to the car. Ignis calls out, “It’s the price we pay as your vassals, Your Highness. And a price you must be aware of and able to face.”

Noctis roughly pulls the car door open to the backseat, and recoils. Ignis and Gladio and rushing forward even without knowing what is wrong, when he cries, “ _Prompto!_ ”

“Uh, hey guys,” Prompto says, lying down across the Regalia’s backseat. His voice his quiet and his expression closed off. With a sinking heart, Ignis knows already that he heard everything.

“Prompto!” Noctis yells, diving into the backseat on top of Prompto in some overly eager interpretation of a hug.

“Oof!” Prompto grunts. “Hey, Noct,” he says while the Prince is literally draped on top of him.

“You injured?” Gladio asks, before Ignis can collect himself enough to speak. Or determine if whether or not he should. “Get off him, Noct, let us see if he’s even okay.”

“I’m okay,” Prompto says. “I found the potions in the trunk.”

“Are you sure? Do you need anything?” Noctis presses, though he does peel himself off of Prompto. There’s a vacancy then, that Ignis wants to step in to fill, to hold Prompto in his arms like he never thought he would again.

He doesn’t. Prompto heard him. He knows that Ignis, for all intent and purposes, sent him to his death.

Ignis would break up with himself, if he were in Prompto’s shoes.

“Iggy?” Prompto asks, crawling out of the car.

There’s a million things Ignis could say, should say, in this moment. _I’m sorry_ , first and foremost. _It should have been me_ , but he doubts that would be well-received, for all that he means it. _You were the only one who could do what was needed_ , is another, but would that be a source of comfort? Ignis isn’t sure. He doubts it.

He says nothing, and Prompto approaches closer still. Ignis can’t read the expression on his face.

Prompto reaches him. Without saying a word, he wraps his arms around Ignis, who stiffens, stunned.

“I thought you guys were dead somewhere,” Prompto mutters into his shirt. “Didn’t know where to go, after the battle. Noct’s thungara toasted my phone. Again. Didn’t have the havens marked nearby, which was stupid of me. So I just went to the Regalia for the potions and to wait.”

How long was Prompto waiting? They got at the haven yesterday right before sundown, and it’s afternoon now, was he waiting here all day, since last night? Where did he go to avoid the daemons during the darkness?

“Prompto,” Noctis says, then stops, and stares at Ignis. Because Ignis has to tell him. He can’t let Prompto live without knowing what Ignis decided, to maintain a charade in a relationship after he made such a decision.

And might have to do so, again, at any point in the future.

Gladio’s frowning, a bit sadly, at the two of them. Prompto keeps his face pressed against Ignis’ chest. “C’mon, Noct, let’s give them some privacy.” They leave, but they don’t go far. Only to a rock formation a little ways away.

If this ends screaming, they’ll hear, but perhaps that’s for the best.

“Prompto,” Ignis says, moving to dislodge Prompto. “I assume you heard my conversation with Noct?”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, refusing to budge. “You thought I was dead.”

“Yes,” Ignis says, swallowing hard. “We did.”

“You thought you sent me to my death,” Prompto says, shifting his head against Ignis’ shirt to look up at him.

“Yes,” Ignis says. He wishes Prompto would let go. He dislikes this questioning with Prompto pressed so close against him, leaving him unable to escape behind a facade emotionally. It would be easier to hide his reaction when Prompto inevitably tells him it’s over; he can’t hide anything when Prompto can feel his every movement, the rise and fall of his breathing, and the beat of his heart.

“Because I was the only person who could do what needed to be done,” Prompto says. “Right?”

“That’s… correct,” Ignis says. Prompto’s looking up at him, waiting, he continues, “You were… the least injured, already pulling our enemies away… none of the rest of us would have lasted long enough in the state we were in to allow a clean escape for the others.”

Prompto hums, tucking his face back into Ignis’ shirt. “So you thought I had the best chance to survive?”

That… yes, but Ignis didn’t think he would. “I thought you would last the longest,” Ignis tells him, truthfully, because he deserves nothing less. “I wasn't… I wasn’t optimistic. Between the MTs and the coeurls… how did you survive?”

Prompto sighs and mercifully pulls away. He scratches the back of his neck, and Ignis spies the bruises of a potion-healed bite on his arm.

“I led the coeurls to attack the MTs,” Prompto says. “And then they pretty much wiped each other out. I just watched for most of it.”

Brilliant. So simple, so neat, so ingenious, and Ignis’ best plan was to sacrifice his lover for the good of the rest of them. “I am so sorry, Prompto. I—I, of course, will give you the space you need, and I completely understand if you want nothing else to do with me, I’ll speak to Noctis about making our break up affect our group as little as possible—”

“You’re breaking up with me?” Prompto asks, startled. “Why?”

Ignis opens his mouth, and closes it. “Prompto,” he says, as gently as possible, even though now he’s questioning if Prompto really is unscathed. Did he hit his head at any point? “In the face of a strategic decision, I decided you were the best option to leave behind so the rest of us could escape. I assumed you would die when I made this decision, as the odds against you were too great.” He lets that sink in. “I would frankly be surprised if you ever wanted anything to do with me again.”

“But, Iggy, you trusted me to do _my job_ ,” Prompto says. “Even if it was a suicide mission, you trusted that I could do it. And that I would!” He exclaims, gesticulating wildly with his hands. “Which I definitely would! It’s my job! I swore an oath! And it’s for Noct, you, and Gladio!”

“I’m your boyfriend,” Ignis protests, “and I knowingly sent you to your death. That’s not… something your boyfriend should do, Prompto. You deserve someone,” he tries to explain, even while Prompto’s mouth takes a hard line and his eyes grow cold, “who can place you first.”

“So you’re breaking up with me?” Prompto demands. “Are you?”

“No,” Ignis says, “but Prompto, listen—”

“You’re trying to break up with yourself for me!” Prompto yells.

Ignis can see Gladio and Noctis out of the corner of his eye, sitting by some rocks not too far away. They move a bit, at Prompto’s raised voice, but don’t get up.

“Do you know how many people Noctis had to go through, to get me approved for Crownsguard?” Prompto demands. Of course Ignis knows that. He was one of them, though Noctis convinced him earlier to plea in Prompto’s favor. “No one thought I could do it! And I can! I _did!_ ” Prompto rubs his eyes, but he doesn’t look like he’s crying. “You trusted me to do my job, Iggy. I’m glad you did, and I’m not going to hold it against you.”

“I’m not sure,” Ignis says, when Prompto’s finished, “if I can forgive myself, then. It is not… how I think of myself, as a partner, to be willing to do such a thing.”

Prompto breathes out noisily through his nose, lips twitching downwards. “So… that’s it? We’re done?”

Ignis’ heart thuds. “I don’t think you should so easily forgive me, Prompto.”

“We can talk about that, but are you breaking up with me?” asks Prompto. “Because I just want my boyfriend to hold and kiss me right now, and he’s not doing that.” He rubs his arm. “And you know, it’s really my decision to forgive you or not, and—I don’t think you did anything wrong. You made the decision you needed to, and you trusted me to do it. You take me seriously, and you know, that’s why we’re together in the first place. And, I,” Prompto clears his throat, “I love you.”

A flush crawls up Ignis’ neck.

Prompto coughs, and fidgets on the heels of his feet. He crosses his arms defensively across his chest. “Look, I heard Noctis tell you that, so I figured—there’s no real point in me _not_ saying it now—”

“I love you too,” Ignis says. “I won’t blame you if you find yourself angry with me later. At any time. I understand.” Ignis can’t imagine that this wouldn’t be kindling to an inferno. Perhaps when the shock vanishes, Prompto will revise his opinion.

Prompto smiles, weakly, but it drops. “I’m still very unkissed here, Iggy.”

Ignis chuckles but there’s little heart behind it. Reality has not settled, and Ignis cannot believe that any of this is true. Because how can he be this lucky? Prompto not only survives what Ignis believed to be was a death sentence, but wants to continue their relationship?

He’ll never be this lucky again.

He must do better.

He focuses on stepping forward, to pull Prompto into his arms like he never thought he would be able to again, lean down, and kiss him. His lips are soft, slightly chapped and dry, and Ignis feels his hand tremble as he cups his face as gently as possible.

Prompto’s hands are gripping the fabric of his shirt when they pull apart.

“I’m sorry, Prompto,” Ignis whispers. “I’ll do my best to make it up to you.”

If it will ever be enough.


End file.
